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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694561">ghost fathers are weird sometimes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellifroze/pseuds/mellifroze'>mellifroze</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fundy angst, Gen, Sad Floris | Fundy, dw i still love him just... why do you do the things that you do?, i have a lot of thoughts about this furry so i wrote a oneshot i guess, i'm fucking awful at tags sorry :), incredible overuse of em dashes - i don't know why--, no beta we die like wilbur, this is Very Bad almost forgot to let you know, wilbur is highkey an asshole who faces 0 consequences so i had fun with that part</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 03:00:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27694561</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellifroze/pseuds/mellifroze</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>fundy finally gets to have a confrontation with wilbur, but it doesn’t go how he’s always wished it would.</p><p>----</p><p>aka i just wanna write fundy angst lmao.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Floris | Fundy &amp; Wilbur Soot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>112</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>ghost fathers are weird sometimes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>ayo thanks for clicking on this fic, i don't wanna be weird but like that genuinely means the world to me? like?? it's hard to wrap my head around someone wanting to read this, but i'll get out of your way now and let you read the sad furry stuff you came here for--</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And we’re here!” Wilbur smiled, opening his home’s iron door. Fundy quickly glanced at the sign beside, the one that read “Ghostbur’s House” in pretty lettering, surrounded by little stars and dots, then ducked inside with his father.</p><p>Fundy was absolutely confused about Wilbur’s choice of real estate. He wanted to mention the ample free land in this newly regained nation, but he decided against it once he saw how homely the ghost had made it in here.</p><p>“Do you like it?” Wilbur asked calmly as he grabbed what seemed to just be a bottle of warm water off a brewing stand. “I know it’s in a sewer, but I think it’s rather cozy.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Fundy confirmed absentmindedly as he looked at all the bookshelves and barrels and general wooden fixtures, choosing to lean against the stone wall that divided Wil’s house into two portions instead of sitting on one of Wilbur’s many chests or slabs.</p><p>“Do you want a glass?” Wilbur asked, motioning to the brewing stands. “It’s just hot water. I don’t know how to make tea, or anything fancy like that, but it makes you feel warm inside. You should try it.”<br/><br/>“No, I’m good, thanks,” Fundy grimaced. What an odd offer. Wilbur had really changed, after the whole death thing. </p><p>“Suit yourself,” Wilbur shrugged, taking a sip from his vial of water. He tucked one hand into the pocket of his black jeans, then looked over at Fundy. “So, what’s up? You said you wanted to talk to me.”</p><p>Fundy nodded, tapping his fingers against each other as he tried to find the words he was looking for. Nothing both honest and tactful came to mind - he didn’t know how exactly he was supposed to start a conversation about hating his father when that same man had just invited him into his sewer home and offered him hot water, it seemed almost immoral to start off like that. But he couldn’t find a better alternative in his mind.</p><p>“Do you love me, Wilbur?” he asked, point blank. There was no softness to his voice, no uncertainty or hope. He wasn’t seeking reassurance, or acceptance, he was seeking confirmation. Closure. He was seeking a way to move on with his life</p><p>He watched carefully as Wilbur’s faded eyes went wide, incredulous at the question. His mouth fell open, and he tried to begin a sentence, but nothing was said. Fundy’s eyes narrowed as he watched his father struggle.</p><p>“...Wil?” he repeated, and his father’s eyes snapped back to lock with his own. “Yes!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Yes, Fundy, of course I love- I loved you. You’re…” he answered, then trailed off, eyes running up the wall, “You’re my son.”</p><p>He said that as if he had to remind himself. He called Fundy his son with the certainty you’d use when describing what you ate for breakfast 3 days ago. Fundy ignored the pang in his heart, because a sudden realization hit him like a brick.</p><p>Right.</p><p>The memories. </p><p>Everyone had warned him about that part. Being a ghost means forgetting a lot, apparently. Of course Fundy didn’t realize that - that he was talking to a husk of his father, a man with only some of Wilbur’s memories. It almost slipped his mind, that he never actually got to ask these questions to his real father before he died. </p><p>How convenient for him.</p><p>That’s exactly the move Wilbur would pull, Fundy thought bitterly. Become a psychopathic asshole, detonate the country, and request a timely murder at the hands of your own father so you don’t have to deal with the consequences. </p><p>The thought made Fundy’s blood boil. He wanted to punch a wall. He wanted to scream. He wanted to do anything that would make people treat him like a real human being and not Wilbur’s weird furry son.</p><p>Most of all, he wanted to finally confront his father. On the way he was treated - on the way his father inadvertently caused everyone to treat him. But that was Wilbur’s final victory, wasn’t it? Taking that chance away from him forever. He would never get that boiling point, that moment where he could finally look Wilbur in the eyes and tell him, to his face, what a shitty father he was. Tell him how much he despised him. He’d just have to make do with a ghost, a ghost who could claim innocence, a ghost who’s reaction would be like telling these things to a stranger.</p><p>He’d make do anyway. He had to.</p><p>When he looked back up, Wilbur seemed to be in another world. He was swaying back and forth to some faint melody only he could hear, eyes closed as his incorporeal form flickered in and out of vision. Another ghost thing, he assumed. Of course there were more odd, distant little ghost things he did now.</p><p>“Wilbur,” he started, unsure his father would even be able to snap back to reality. When he did, Fundy didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed, but he continued nonetheless. “You… What do you remember about me?”</p><p>Wilbur smiled at the question. He seemed to smile at everything now, the same peaceful, distant smile. Maybe he was happier as a ghost, free from the guilt and memories of all the heinous acts he had committed in life.</p><p>“You’re my son,” Wilbur started, and for a moment Fundy thought that's where his memories ended. Wil paused for a moment, his eyes meeting Fundy’s but feeling to look right through him. “and you’re… Your mom was Sally, wasn’t she?”</p><p>“Yeah.”<br/><br/>“Yeah…” Wilbur echoed, then giggled softly. “She was a salmon, wasn’t she?”</p><p>“Yes, she was,” Fundy confirmed again. He tried to ignore the thoughts that started racing through his mind - the usual ones when people brought up his mother, the ones ingrained in him, the self-hatred, the judgement… He couldn’t believe that that same judgement was coming so blatantly from Wilbur right now. His father - the one who had <em> fucked a salmon </em>in the first place. He seemed to be laughing at the memory, as if he was yet another outsider. Someone looking in at how weird and strange and humiliating a thought it was, that he was the product of a man and a salmon having sex. To be fair, he was only being slightly more blatant about the ridicule than he had been when he was alive.</p><p>Wilbur didn’t seem to be thinking about Fundy anymore, when he looked back up. He was back to the ghost sway he had been doing before. Fundy was sure there was some reason to it, that maybe keeping his form visible to living things was difficult, but he sure didn’t give a fuck. Was that all he had to say? About his own son? The two things he seemed to know were that Fundy was his son and his mom was a salmon, which is… painfully little.</p><p>He was about to call his father out on that - to ask if that was really all he still remembered about him - but he thought better of it. What good would that do him? It would only serve to make him feel worse, since this ghost would feel no sense of guilt over all the things he did in life. So he took a different approach.</p><p>“What else do you remember?”</p><p>Wilbur’s faded eyes seemed to light up at the question. “I know this one!” he smiled, as if this was a class and he finally had the correct answer. Fundy was taken aback by this reaction, but Wilbur went over to grab something out of a chest before he could react. It was a book - Fundy caught a glimpse of the title, which read ‘Things I Remember.’ </p><p>This ought to be good.</p><p>He opened it and started to summarize some of his points. “L’Manburg,” he started, which was a good start - the entire nation you founded, the cause of death and suffering and wars, that would be a good thing to remember. “And the revolution - the… The one against Dream. I remember, um… bullying Tommy, and the wind, and being the president - of L’Manburg - and I remember you growing up!”</p><p>Oh. That was nice. And rather vague, but he was glad he got at least one bullet point in this book. As did Tommyinnit. And the wind. It really didn’t mean much, it seemed. Wilbur kept listing different items - a particularly dark one sent chills down his spine, ‘Philza stabbing me to death with a sword,’ Wil’s demeanour took a subtle but abrupt shift there - but other than that, it was just a vague outline of Wilbur’s life, and Fundy didn’t want to try to care.</p><p>When he finished, he looked at Fundy expectantly, somewhat akin to a dog awaiting a treat or just general attention. Fundy found that incredibly off-putting. His whole demeanor was so… nice. So wholesome and fun and cutesy. Fundy was so used to the cold, distant and, towards the end, insane Wilbur. Why couldn’t this kind man, who cared about what his son thought, have existed earlier?</p><p>“That’s nice, Wilbur,” Fundy muttered, unwilling to put any more enthusiasm into his voice. Wilbur frowned at that.</p><p>“Why are you upset, Fundy?” he asked softly, genuine concern crossing his face.</p><p>“I- Uh…” …where to start? Fundy had so many things he wanted to say, but no way to reconcile his memories of Wilbur with the ghost standing in front of him. He couldn’t associate them in his head anymore - he found it difficult and immoral to have an emotional outburst at this cheery spirit. It was like he wasn’t even Wilbur - even past losing memories of all the fucked up shit he’s done, his personality had done a complete 180. This didn’t seem like the man that would’ve called him a furry regularly, even after he continuously expressed his hatred of the phrase. He didn’t seem like the sort of person to make a random teenager the vice president instead of even considering his son. He didn’t seem like someone who would write a national anthem about a country and immortalize the names of four out of five of its founding members, including a traitor, but not his own son. He didn’t even seem like someone who would constantly baby him, publicly, causing everyone to think he was someone to be patronized and devalued.</p><p>He just seemed like a good father.</p><p>Fundy clenched his jaw, willing his eyes to stop blurring as he met Wilbur’s gaze. “Y-You weren’t the best father to me, Wil,” he answered, voice quavering. </p><p>Wilbur’s eyes went wide. “What?” he asked softly. “Fundy I-...” Wilbur took a few steps forward, resting his hands on Fundy’s shoulders. “I’m sorry if I hurt you.”</p><p>Fundy glanced back and forth between Wil’s eyes. “Yeah… yeah, you did,” he responded quietly, unsure of what he was even supposed to say. Was he supposed to be angry? Was he supposed to… comfort his father? He didn’t know.</p><p>“Oh,” Wilbur nodded, seeming to really have to think about what Fundy just said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what did I do? What was I like?”</p><p>“You…” Fundy started, momentarily at a loss for words, “you were distant, and mean sometimes. You would always treat me like a baby who couldn’t do anything on his own, you never took me seriously and you never listened to me. You always seemed to care more about other people than about me, you…”</p><p>Fundy trailed off. He didn’t know how exactly to kindly express his hatred for this man. He didn’t know how to phrase every slight, every little moment where he was ignored or put down, and make it sound… valid. How do you tell your father that being called a furry constantly, by everyone you know, is mentally scarring? How do you say that having your salmon mother brought up constantly is hurtful? How do you tell him that being given the title “My Little Champion” in lieu of something real is humiliating? And how do you make all of those sound as serious as they feel? So many of his biggest issues seem laughable, pitiful when said out loud.</p><p>“I- Fundy, I… I’m sorry if I was a bad father then. When I was alive. I didn’t… I wouldn’t do those things. The things you said. I’m so sorry that I… I did, I guess,” he laughed, bewildered at the thought.</p><p>“Yeah, Wil, you did. You… Wil, can I be honest?” </p><p>Wilbur nodded, giving him the go-ahead.</p><p>“It’s really <em> fucking </em>annoying to be telling you this now.”</p><p>Fundy felt Wil’s hands tense up on his shoulders. He frowned, looking worriedly into Fundy’s eyes, trying to discern what he could mean without having to ask. Fundy’s face was cold, expressionless, he couldn’t make it warmer if he wanted to, and it took all he had not to make it a snarl.</p><p>“What do you mean, Fundy?” Wil asked nervously, a smile crossing his face that mirrored the peaceful ones he gave earlier, when things were calmer.</p><p>“I mean - Wil, you were a fucking asshole! You only ever cared about yourself, a-and fucking L’Manburg! Never <em> me, </em> never <em> your son </em> , just L’Manburg this and L’Manburg that and you had the <em> audacity </em> to blow it up as soon as I started to find it bearable - as soon as <em> anyone else </em> gained control of it! And then you went and had Philza fucking stab you so you’d never have to deal with the consequences! I <em> despise you! </em>”</p><p>Fundy’s breaths were laboured as he recovered from the outburst. </p><p>“Blow it- tell Philza to…” Wilbur mused, mind reeling. “...Fundy, I didn’t - I wouldn’t do that!” He shouted, finally seeming to grow<em> angry </em> . Angry at these accusations, the ones that must’ve felt baseless to him, and Fundy finally started to see the similarities between this ghost and the father he used to know. “I never would have done this, Fundy. You’re just mad that you didn’t always get your way. I’m sure I was a great father to you. You’re just finding things to blame me for so you don’t have to deal with yourself! I <em> wouldn’t </em> have done any of that!”</p><p>“No! You <em> would’ve, </em> Wilbur, because you <em> did!” </em>Fundy shouted, throwing Wilbur’s arms off of him. When he opened his eyes, the tear-filled ones, the ones he didn’t even realize he squeezed shut… he was gone. Wilbur was gone.</p><p>Fundy stood still, silent, in shock. The room suddenly felt colder, bigger, emptier than it had before. He realized, tears streaking down his cheeks, that Wilbur had done it again. Fundy had thought his final victory had been the explosion, but he had been wrong. Even after his death, even past all the lost memories, Wilbur kept finding that one last way to get at him. Maybe there’d be more to come, Fundy found himself thinking.</p><p>And then, he realized, there would be.</p><p>For the first time in months, years maybe, he felt clarity. Without Wilbur, he felt the bigger picture. All those things he had done to try and win his father’s favour, they were still going to be things he did. Things with real, lasting consequences. The dismay, distrust or downright hatred many people bore towards him for being on Schlatt’s side, for tearing the walls down or burning the flag… that wasn’t going to go away now that his end goal was unreachable - they’d haunt him forever, forever reminding him of his father. Forever reminding Fundy of the years he spent trying to reach something unattainable.</p><p>Not only would his father never love him, but no one else would, either</p><p>This was unfair. This was all so fucking unfair. He wanted to punch a wall, to do something own volition, something completely free from the judgement of others. This time, he wanted to, so he did. <em> No one was here to see it anymore. </em> The sharp <em> thump! </em> rang through his ears, and the faint stinging slowly built up to a dull pain through his hand, down his wrist, fading towards his elbow. No one was here, so he started laughing. He laughed harder than he had in years - he laughed <em> louder. </em> He finally let himself do something, without worry of his father or friends patronizing him, without worry of Schlatt’s wrath or suspicion, and he cried. He sobbed. He leaned up against the wall and sank down until he was just a ball on the floor. Like he was a little kid again.</p><p>He let himself stay there for a while. He let himself have this, have this one moment of sadness, of weakness, alone. Because really, anywhere else, and he would never live it down. Complaining about your father neglecting and babying you to a group of people, and it’s daddy issues, being seen sobbing on the floor and laughing like a maniac? That’s a one-way ticket to eternal ridicule.</p><p>So he let himself stay here. He stayed until his eyes ran dry, and his throat felt coarse. He brought the sleeve of his bomber jacket up to his face, wiping it as dry as he could, and blinked the remaining blurriness out of his eyes, and he stayed. Even when he went silent, he couldn’t bring himself to get up.</p><p>He couldn’t find a single reason to.</p><p>He used to get up because his father’s love could be waiting for him, if he just did this next bit right. At least, that’s what he said to himself. Truth be told, he realized a long time ago that his father’s love was never going to be what he wanted it to be, or that he’d never see it at all, but he never acknowledged it. Not until now, until he was forced to, and now what reason could he use?</p><p>He couldn’t say he was going to win his grandfather’s love. Even if he could, if he did, he never <em> truly </em> would. Phil would always have Tommy and Techno and Tubbo above him, wouldn’t he? He’d always be the grandchild, the <em> furry </em> grandchild, the <em> half-salmon mistake, </em>never truly loved or accepted.</p><p>He couldn’t say it was for his friends. He didn’t have those - he doesn’t, not after losing them all to his brief run with Schlatt. He didn’t have friends anymore, he had acquaintances. Ones who say they forgive him, but deep down, never will. Or ones that tolerate him, humor him, but will never truly like him. Better yet, the majority of them - the ones that openly despise and distrust him to his face. Not silently, openly. The ones that ridicule him for every unchangeable aspect of his being, the ones that laugh at how fucked up he is. The ones who view the man who caused all that as a bystander, not a perpetrator.</p><p>He couldn’t say it was for his country, could he? How could he care about a country that obviously didn’t care about him? A country, founded by his father, given to his father’s friend, who then gave it to his friend. There wasn’t a second where Wilbur even considered giving it to his son, and there wasn’t a second Tommy did, and he’s certain Tubbo wouldn’t have either. He wasn’t truly valued in “Tubbo’s L’Manburg,” for as much as that kid wanted to pretend this place was nice and happy and Fundy had a nice, equal role, he would always be loyal to Tommy, and that meant this country was really whatever those two wanted it to be. It was clear Fundy was never going to be a high priority for them - for anyone in this country, honestly, so he couldn’t even pretend it was for L’Manburg.</p><p>Maybe he could pretend it was for his fiance.</p><p>Truly, that was the only thing that came to his mind, and a final hoarse laugh escaped his lips. The tyrant, the demon, the cause of mass suffering, that was his best reason to get up. His future husband, he thought. That would work. He could win the love of a green blob, that would be his new alternative.</p><p>It seemed exactly as plausible as his old reason, as his father. Winning the love of a maniacal tyrant hellbent on control and chaos… which one of them was he even describing there? This was a perfect replacement.</p><p>He felt a grin cross his face. The irony of this situation was morbidly hilarious to him. Replace one unattainable goal with one that was just as feasible, huh? It seemed much easier to accept that this one was a facade, though. He remembered how Dream had to go through a small list of his closest friends, trying to remember if they were taken, before he accepted Fundy’s love. That was fine, though. It was fine that Dream clearly didn’t care as much about Fundy as Fundy cared about him - he didn’t need to, Fundy just needed to pretend he thought Dream ever could.</p><p>He hauled himself back on to his feet with a bookshelf, then left Wilbur’s house and climbed back out of the sewer. He was just in time for the sunset, he realized. How cute. As he walked back towards his new mess of a wooden house, he smiled.</p><p>He knew this cycle would continue again - he’s sure in the pursuit of Dream’s affection that he’d burn a few bridges, but really, what damage could it do anymore? Fundy was already well aware of the existing damage, and he had tried again and again to repair those bonds, but why put in the effort when that was so obviously fruitless? When no one even wanted to hear his side of a story? It was easier to throw what remains of his friendships into a pyre and dedicate it all to Dream - it had worked with Schlatt, and then he had finally felt happy, valued, <em> real. </em> So it would work this time, too.</p><p>It had to.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so... thanks for reading all that?? holy shit that's??? very cool of you??? please, if you have any feedback or just any thoughts in general, leave a comment! i have recently become Very Obsessed with dream smp and i need validation please i beg of you give me the valida</p></blockquote></div></div>
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